


We Were Meant To Live

by Sinine



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mental Instability, Multi, Pansexual Character, Slow Build, The Master is repulsed by Jack, and it's a really appropriate tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:50:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5560675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinine/pseuds/Sinine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack finds new trouble in the form of The Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Meant To Live

**Author's Note:**

> Various language oddities because english is my second language.  
> I've had this in my drafts for years, which is a reason I might not continue this story. I have the second chapter 95% complete so I might upload that. But I don't know if this will ever go beyond two chapters.
> 
> Decided to post this as it is, if someone likes it, then that's swell.

The trees are knocked over. Jack pushes forward through all the wood and dirt to keep searching for the thing that had caused this.

 

It had to be something alien. Toshiko had been getting fluctuating rift activity from this place for the last two days now. But since it supposedly hadn't moved and the news said nothing about people suddenly dying near the Llandegla forest (nor had anyone found the alien device yet, apparently. People were so ignorant), they decided to finish the task of finding a Weevil on loose in central London. And now, after capturing the killer alien, Jack and two of his team mates (Gwen and Owen) were walking through the forest, looking for the alien artefact that had seemed to crash into this forest.

 

It took a solid 10 minutes of wandering to finally find the place where the rift energy was accumulating, according to Tosh (who was at the hub, feeding them information through a comm). Jack's companions were silent, because the day had already been exhaustive enough. That and no one had anything clever to really say either (“Shut up, Owen!“).

 

And then, further away, they saw the trail end with a tree. A tree (half the size of fucking _Cardiff_ ), tipped over, with something dark stuck in it's base. Something, they all realized with alarm, that was not a _thing_ at all. It was a human. Or at least something that resembled very closely a human.

 

They walked up to it, only then seeing the blood everywhere, dry and caked. Thankfully, there wasn't too much of it there — didn't make you want to think of a murder spree once you really looked at it. But it was still an amount that would make a person reel back from surprise and disgust. (“I'd say that this is about 3 pints of blood. If it's his, and if he's still alive, then he needs medical attention, stat.”) The stench that accompanied the scene was not so pleasant either; the smell of clean forest and old blood is not a good combination.

 

They were all incredibly cautious, bodies strung tight with tension (hands on their guns, eyes narrowed, steps slower), as they neared the almost fallen tree and it's human(?) friend (The tree was thick; hundreds of years old. This only served to make Jack even more anxious — this tree wouldn't fall easily. And yet, it was almost completely broken at the base. That human, or whatever it actually was, flew into that tree with immense power).

 

“Jesus.” Though Owen's voice was monotonous, his body recoiled, when they stepped closer to the body. Gwen's body suggested that as soon as she got over her shock, she would be running towards it.

 

Jack quickly grabbed her arm. “Gwen, we don't know what it is.” Gwen wrenched herself free of Jack and gave him a surprisingly reassuring gaze, before running over to the body anyway. She stopped a few feet before it, refraining herself from touching it.

 

“It's — he's... We need to know if he's still alive!”

 

“ _Don't_ touch the body, Gwen,” Jack said, voice tight and commanding. “It could be an alien. And if it really _did_ survive that huge fucking trip, how much do you wanna bet it actually _is_ an alien?”

 

“Well then,” Owen said, walking up to Gwen and the body, voice teasing, but with a hint of caution, “Should we poke it with a stick first, Gwen?” (Jack walked up to his other two team mates, gun tight in his hands. He didn't stop them, though, when they moved even closer to the body).

 

Gwen took a step closer and lifted a thin (but adequately long) stick from the ground. Before she could poke the body though, Owen grabbed her arm. “Uh, maybe I should...” Gwen looked a bit hesitant (she almost said that she wasn't afraid, but in the end she knew that Owen understood that. He was just suggesting, because he couldn't get hurt in case something decided to attack) and offered the stick after a moment. Owen took it and poked the man tentatively in the shoulder (they couldn't see his face — it was hidden by his arms, one definitely broken by the surreal angle they saw it in. One of his legs looked like it had taken a beating as well; broken and bent at a painfully wrong angle. Jack didn't want to even _think_ about his internal organs). He received no response from the poking. Then, with surprising amount of courage, Owen took a hold of the man's pullover (dark blue) and pulled until the man's arms fell away to reveal a bruised and battered face, blond hair dyed with red blood and—

 

Jesus!!

 

Jack physically reeled back, almost feeling the need to vomit. Because — holy shit — he never expected this to happen. Not in a million years. His face was bloody and bruised beyond almost recognition. _Almost._ Jack wasn't even sure why he could recognize the man, but he could. He gave off the same vibe he seemed to when they were all still on the Valiant. Master. The insane Time Lord. The alien who had enslaved the whole Earth for a _year_.

 

A quick second to compose himself, Jack pulled out his gun and pointed it at the Master's body. If he's dead, then he wont know anything. If not, then he's unconscious anyway. Either way, he needs to shoot.

 

Owen noticed this and, paralysed by shock, started, “Jack—“

 

“What— Jack, no!” Gwen exclaimed, darting to Jack and gripping the gun — not wrenching it away, but pointing it somewhere else. “What's wrong with you?!”

 

“Gwen, that man is dangerous!” Jack shouted, on edge (That's the scary thing; Jack gets anxious only when there's something really, fundamentally wrong going on). “He needs to be killed; he's responsible for so many terrible deeds! Just back off Gwen!”

 

“Well, he sure as hell isn't doing those terrible deeds now, is he?! The man is half-dead, if not dead completely! Are you really going to shoot someone, who's not even capable of defending himself?”

 

“Yes, if they're anywhere near as dangerous as he is!” Jack yelled, pulling the gun away from Gwen's grasp and pointing it at the Master again.

 

“Well, I'm not going to let you kill this man, Jack! He deserves medical attention as much as everyone else,” she fumed, deliberately putting her body between the alien and Jack's gun, walking towards the body again.

 

“Stop! Don't take another step further!” Gwen jumped slightly from surprise and stopped, but turned to glare at Jack.

 

“Just,” Jack sighed, rubbing his face, looking suddenly really old. “Just wait for a bit. I need to think.” The other two stayed silent, watching their Captain, both wondering about nearly identical questions.

 

It was almost sickening that Jack was even considering doing anything else, _but_ killing the alien. This man deserved a fate worse than death and since the Doctor wouldn't do it, then—

 

…

 

...Doctor...

 

This was gonna end only one way from the beginning, wasn't it? Because as much as Jack disliked (even _hated_ ) the Master, he couldn't kill someone, who was important to the Doctor. Without the Master, Doctor truly would be the last Time Lord. And that was the one thing Jack just couldn't do; he couldn't make the Doctor any more lonelier than he already was.

 

Jack walked up to the alien's body. Master's face was actually quite undamaged (in contrast to the rest of his body), aside from the broken nose, a black eye, and the occasional bruise or cut (which didn't look man-made, believe it or not. It looked more like he fell onto some jagged rocks by the shore), but the rest of his body looked like it had gone through World War III. His left arm and his right leg were _definitely_ broken, now that he saw them up close (though, alien here, who knew how his body worked) and his clothes weren't even fit to describe as clothing any more from how torn up and bloody they were.

 

He crouched down and touched the alien's good arm lightly (just in case). Nothing happened. Jack pulled back anyway, the hand on his gun tightening. A few moments later, when still nothing happened, Jack tried again, this time going for the neck. “Gwen," he said. "He's deadly cold and his pulse is really weak. Since you want to keep him alive, then you will do just that. He will be your responsibility. Owen, you can choose to help Gwen or not, that's entirely your choice, but both of you need to remember that he is going straight into the cells as soon as he wakes and is well enough to move. Have you got that?” He looked straight at Gwen.

 

“Yes—Yes, sir!”

 

“Good.” Jack nodded to himself, standing up straight, “Get to it then. We have a long way back.” He started walking back towards the van (Gwen refrained from asking if they weren't going to call an ambulance. Of course they wouldn't — this guy was probably an alien and if he was half as bad as Jack said he was, then it probably wouldn't be a good idea to leave him in a hospital full of people).

 

Owen took out the bag that held their tent and removed it, placing it on the ground (for lack of a stretcher, or something better). He then helped Gwen manoeuvre the alien's body onto it. They both held the tent from opposite ends and prepared to walk the way back to their van to take the alien to Torchwood.

 

696

 

Gwen put the near-dead body of the alien on the autopsy table, where they usually dissected dead bodies on... or brought them back to life, whichever (though, they obviously couldn't do the latter any more — both of the gloves were destroyed). Owen was a bit more reluctant to help her now, remembering how Jack had freaked out when he saw the body. He held a cup of coffee in his hands (not drinking it, because of obvious reasons, but giving his hands something to do. It was more Gwen's coffee than his anyway), nervously surveying the body.

 

“Listen, do you think that maybe...” Owen's words got stuck somewhere on the way as Gwen stared at him with her big, slightly infuriated eyes. He took a small glance upwards, to the railings, where Jack was watching them both intently (for once), hand loosely holding a gun. Owen turned back to Gwen and forced the next words out, voice low enough for Jack to not catch them, “That maybe it's not such a good idea to nurse someone back to health, who has obviously, at some point, been Jack's enemy?”

 

“Owen.” Gwen's voice was clipped and the man was suddenly reminded of a mother hen (he wanted to say it out loud oh so badly. But he valued his balls too much, despite their uselessness, to actually do it). “Even if the man is as bad as Jack thinks he is, he's still got rights. We can put him in a holding cell _after_ he's well enough to stand on his own two feet.” Though her words were heated, her voice was low; she didn't wish to argue with Jack about how that man deserved nothing but cold-blooded death.

 

When Owen made no move to start fussing over the half-dead man, to start treating him, she carefully started peeling the clothes off the body. “He's deadly cold.” Gwen frowned and turned to Owen, “Can you bring me some blankets? When we're done with the—“

 

“Just so you guys know, I'm pretty sure his default temperature is 16 degrees Celsius, if he is who he seems to be," Jack smirked, voice filled with amusement. "Though usually it's the core temperature...”

 

“Is he an alien?” Owen questioned.

 

“Yes, he is.”

 

“What species?”

 

“...Time Lord.”

 

Gwen couldn't stop the giggle from escaping her lips, “A Time Lord? Sounds a bit pretentious.” Owen seemed equally amused.

 

Jack grinned, “You'll love this — he's one of the last two Time Lords left in the Universe.”

 

Gwen didn't know whether Jack was joking or not, so she kept grinning and began to carefully pull the thick pullover off the man (she was extra cautious with the broken arm) (Owen put the cup of coffee on a shelf nearby and helped her). The sweater was ripped, but not enough to make it easier to take it off. Despite it being from an incredibly tough and durable material, it was torn in a lot of places and the man's arms, hands and fingers got caught in the holes whenever possible. Gwen was happy the man was unconscious right now — this would have been unbearably painful otherwise.

 

Once that was done, Gwen threw the ripped clothing on the floor and began working on his shirt (it was a black polo, but Gwen could feel the places where the blood had dried and made the fabric more rough and uneven. It also stuck to him like a second skin where his most prominent wounds were. The wounds started bleeding again when Gwen pulled the clothing away).

 

Owen grabbed a stethoscope from a nearby drawer and put the chest-piece on the alien's left breast, the ear tips in his ears already. “So the Time Lords are nearly extinct, huh? We should capture them both and keep them in a cage, until they start breeding.”

 

“I'm pretty sure male Time Lords can't reproduce. Though, who knows with aliens.”

 

“The other Time Lord is a guy as well?” Gwen asked, surprised. Jack gave a small murmur of agreement.

 

Owen frowned, “His heart seems to be beating, but barely... it's very, very slow. His lungs sound a bit strange though—“

 

“Try listening to the other side,” Jack said and Gwen thought the most hilarious thing wasn't the request itself, but the way Jack looked completely serious while asking it.

 

“I'm sorry?” She couldn't help the small chuckle. "Have you forgotten which side the heart resides in? Also, his heart seemed to be beating for the moment so..."

 

"Humor me."

 

"Well," Owen drawled, even as he prepared to crouch over the alien a second time. "Most people have their hearts slanted to the left side, but there are a few exceptions where some people have their hearts slanted to the right side..." He put the chest-piece against the alien's right breast this time and took his time with controlling the alien's chest. Finally he stood back up straight, taking the stethoscope away. “Nothing out of the ordinary, except for possibly a punctured lung. Happy, Jack?”

 

What made Gwen nervous was the way Jack immediately straightened up, alarmed, and quickly descended the stairs to his two team mates. He motioned for Owen to hand him the stethoscope (which he did, a bit bewildered) and crouched over the body of the alien, putting the chest-piece on his left breast and then his right breast, listening carefully. Not even five seconds later he stood up straight and turned sharply to Owen. “I hope you remember how to resuscitate a heart. His right heart isn't beating.”

 

Gwen gaped. “Are you kidding me? He's got two hearts?!”

 

Jack paused. He placed the stethoscope down and quickly patted the alien's pockets, before replying, “Yeah, pretty sure he's got two hearts right now. And one of them isn't working. Owen,” he turned to said team mate, who was suddenly very still, “you better get to it right now. I'm not sure how long he could manage with just one heart. He's already been like that for hours now...”

 

Owen was quiet; it didn't look like he was going to be moving any time soon. Gwen turned to him, biting her lip, before patting his shoulder lightly. “Owen, can you do this? For me?” She asked, voice soft. Owen sighed (more of a reflex than anything else) and said, voice surprisingly calm, “I can. But you guys need to go away; I can't work with you here. I'll call you when I need a hand.”

 

696

 

It was at least six hours before Owen finally came up from the autopsy room, most of his arms and front covered in blood. He was not tired (obviously), though he'd still needed help occasionally. Gwen and Ianto had been helping him in shifts (Jack came periodically, when Owen needed clarification whether it was normal or not for the alien's ribcage to have 26 ribs, instead of 24. Or if it was normal to have darker blood with a slight orange tint to it. Or a temperature that was incredibly low).

 

“Is he okay?” Gwen asked, nearing the doctor.

 

Owen took off his once-white-now-red coat and gloves, debating whether it'd be worth it to buy new ones or to just take them to a wash house. He threw them on the ground and flopped down in a seat, opting to think about it later. He sighed, “He's in a stable coma; I seriously don't know when he'll be coming to. And he's an alien. For all we know, he could wake up a few days from now. Or maybe in a few months. Or even longer.” He rubbed his forehead lightly, not because of an oncoming migraine, but more because of a habit he hadn't gotten rid of yet.

 

“What threw me off, though,” he continued, “was that he seemed to have twice the amount of organs humans have. Not everything, of course, but still... And there were organs I had never even seen before. I had no idea if they were damaged or not, but they seemed to be working well enough so I left them alone.” The medic threaded his fingers through his hair; again, a habit. “His left arm and right leg are in a cast; they should heal in six weeks, at the very least... if he's anything like us humans, anyway.” Owen started, but didn't correct his slip. “I had to remove what looked like shrapnel from his abdomen, made of some kind of alloy not found on Earth. And his other heart is beating again... after an electrical resuscitation.”

 

Owen knew he should feel tired after six hours of working on the blond man, but he didn't. Instead he felt neutral, neither tired nor invigorated. Being dead made him miss the smaller things in life. “He lost a lot of blood, but I think he'll recover enough blood cells without us having to worry about finding him a blood donor. Pretty sure we'd be in a jam if we _did_ have to find him a donor though.”

 

Jack nodded. “That's nice and all, but is he secured against the table? I don't want him running around on the streets of Cardiff as soon as our backs are turned.”

 

“He's... not so much secured, as he wont be able to move much with a broken leg. But—“ Owen added quickly, seeing how Jack had begun to open his mouth to object. “—I can still fasten him to the autopsy table... though not very roughly. I don't want him to worsen his condition when he wakes.”

 

And that was that. Everyone was happy for once. Or as close to happy as their team could get.

 

Days passed with nothing from the alien (nothing as in no consciousness, no moving, nothing). Tosh and Owen checked the alien's condition regularly, seeing small signs of healing (faster than a human's, but not in the right order — he was still not out of the coma, even though he seemed to get better. Furthermore, the biggest wounds, the ones that were on his stomach, seemed to heal a lot faster than the cuts and scrapes on his face. His broken bones, however, seemed to heal with astonishing slowness).

 

Jack was very, very cautious when it came to the blond man, never leaving him alone at the hub. When they had a mission, they left one (most of the time two even) to stay behind and watch over him (half of the time it was Owen, other half it was Jack himself. Rarely did he let anyone else stay behind, unless he or Owen stayed as well).

 

(Tosh one day mentioned that the Time Lord looked a lot like Harold Saxon, the prime minister who went mad. To that the others joined in and started discussing whether it was possible that Saxon had indeed been an alien. Jack never joined their discussions though and evaded all questions regarding the other man)

 

They fell into an almost-routine again. It was peaceful and nothing was disturbed.

696

 

The first thing that came to him were the drums. They were a little different, a bit too quiet and far-away, but he felt too tired to analyse it any further. This should have alerted him, should have roused him enough to realize that something was wrong.

 

However, his brain was moving sluggishly and instead he just noticed how numb he felt. It took what felt like a century to finally get his eyes open, which he immediately closed again, because of the bright lights. He tried again a few minutes later, blinking rapidly. The lights hurt a little less now. Which brought him to his next objective: look around, observe.

 

He was in a white room, the walls made of bricks and lined with various shelves and cabinets, filled with what he guessed were medical equipment. He saw no one around, but there were stairs leading up to some other room on his left. There was a slight tug when he tried to move his arms (there's a thin but warm blanket on him. It felt like concrete). That's when he noticed the catheter attached to his right arm, an IV bag hanging near his bedside. There's a heart monitor next to it, many wires leading to him.

 

There were no drums in his head, just the monitor, beeping to the rate of his hearts.

 

Master's throat felt suddenly very parched and dry. He wasn't sure what to think of this. One thing he was sure of, though — he's terrified of that beeping on the monitor stopping. Not really because he was afraid he would die if they stopped, but more because... the drums, they just needed to keep going. They had to.

 

He hadn't noticed before, but he was feeling very nauseas (a tickle at the back of his brain, insisting that there was something wrong with this place. Something very abnormal). He tried to lift his arms, but felt that they were bound underneath the blanket. His legs felt to be bound as well. Had he been caught by the Daleks? No, something was wrong. He was supposed to wake up to the sounds of a war going on, Time Lords screaming and fighting through hoards of Daleks swarming them.

 

Master felt his mind awaken, slightly frantic about his new situation. He tried to relax back into the table, feeling his back protest because of how long he had stayed in a horizontal position already. His mind quickly tried to swarm him with information to help him out, and to help him relax. The first thing his mind supplied him with was that he was in 2008 (his mind blanked for a second, before he tried again, noticing that it was _indeed_ year 2008. Curious). He had been unconscious for two weeks, four days, 13 hours and 46 minutes. He was probably on Earth... at least, it smelled like Earth. Other than that he wasn't sure _where_ exactly he was.

 

He tried the bonds on his hands, before quickly abandoning that idea when he felt a numb pain start from his left arm (he noticed the cast and felt that there was one on his left leg as well — wonderful).

 

He heard a shuffle come from somewhere to his left, from the stairs, and Master stilled. He closed his eyes, tried to slow his hearts back down, succeeded.

 

“Hey, you can stop pretending; I saw you on the CCTV. Wake up.”

 

Master opened his eyes and stared at the man walking towards him with a clipboard in his hands (his accent said that he was most likely somewhere in Great Britain). Master felt the nausea grow suddenly, very suddenly.

 

“I'm going to... to...” His voice was hoarse and scratchy from lack of use. He couldn't even finish the sentence, body feeling hot and cold all over. The other man, though, must've understood, because he rushed over to a cabinet and pulled out a bucket, before hurrying back to Master and pushing his blanket away. He worked quickly on the bindings that held the Time Lord in place and as soon as the alien was free, he sat up and started vomiting into the bucket handed to him (nothing came out of him; he hadn't eaten in weeks. Only things that escaped him were stomach juices, which hurt his throat even more as they came up).

 

It took forever (6 minutes. Being a Time Lord was fucked up sometimes) until he stopped trying to force his stomach into the bucket he was holding. His dry heaves stopped gradually and finally he just flopped down on the table again, not caring about the bucket he let go of (the other man took it and placed it down near the table, the bucket's contents not even covering the whole bottom). A hand nudged him (Master suppressed another bout of dry heaving) and he looked up at the man. He was handed a glass of water, which he took with his good hand and tried to start drinking, before his brain reminded him that it was _not_ a good idea to try that in a horizontal position. He sat up again and drank the liquid, some of it going down the wrong way and he gave a few small coughs, water droplets landing on the white gown that was covering him. He tried again.

 

“So... you feeling okay? No headaches? Cramps? Acute coryza?” Master gave a half-hearted glare at the man to which the other just grinned. “Sorry, I'm a jerk. Not sure what's normal, what's not with your species. You're the first of your kind I've had to doctor. And from what I've heard, probably the last. I'm doctor Owen Harper by the way.”

 

Master gave a nod of acknowledgement, but didn't offer his own name, even when the other's eyebrow raised. “Where am I?” he asked instead (his voice cracked, but he coughed to clear his throat).

 

“You're in Cardiff,” doctor Owen said calmly, evading the actual question. He took his clipboard and started writing things down. “We found you in the Llandegla forest though, looking like you were halfway to your deathbed. Now hold still.” He took out a small torch and flashed Master in one eye, then the other, checking his eyes as well as his brain activity (Master shuddered at the other's touch on him, feeling nauseas again), before pulling back to write more stuff down.

 

“So... you here on Earth for a holiday? Because if so, you seemed to find a shitty resting spot — Cardiff is a tourist spot for all kinds of aliens these days and most of them are hostile. Tell me, did you bump in with a pack of Weevils or something?” Though carefully veiled in snarky humour, Owen sounded curious.

 

Master's mouth quirked lazily, before thoughts of the war rose to the forefront of his mind. The Doctor's fearful gaze as he attacked Rassilon and left (inadvertently) Earth to participate in a loop of the last day of the Time War. He wasn't sure how many centuries he had actually fought, because the time loop threw him off constantly, but it had been a long time. He was just glad to be away from it now — the war had been a constant strain on his psyche.

 

The Time Lord didn't reply to the question, but asked instead, "When am I leaving?"

 

At that Owen frowned, "That's not my decision to make — wait for my boss. Though as to when you'll be well enough to leave then in about three months, if you'll heal at the same speed you've been going for the past two weeks. Broken bones, though, tend to take a great deal longer than your usual cuts or bruises. Now hold still."

 

Owen removed the catheter from his arm and then made as to remove the electrodes of the EKG, before Master took in a hissing breath, "Can you just... leave those on me, for now?"

 

Owen raised an eyebrow. "Any... particular reason why I should do that?"

 

"I..." It was almost painful thinking of those drums stopping. "I want them to stay." Dear Lord, Master, you are an utter child.

 

"Sorry. I'll be going to take them away soon anyway, so why not do it now." Owen's hands already landed on the first electrodes, when Master's own hands grabbed his and held them as hard as his weak body could at that moment.

 

"Do. Not. Touch them."

 

Owen didn't seem to be bothered by the grip, but he still backed away and Master let go of him.

 

"Who's your boss?" Master asked to get back on track with the last topic.

 

"He'll be here in a bit," Owen evaded the question casually, writing something down again. "He's on a mission right now, but I gave him a ring as soon as I saw you regaining consciousness. He's been waiting for you to wake up. It's almost depressing how obsessed he is with you. Open up." Owen took out a tongue depressor and checked Master's throat with it (Master almost gagged, but suppressed the urge). Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he went back to writing. "So what's your name? That is, if you even have one." Owen glanced up at Master, pen stilling in his hand.

 

"The Master," he answered succinctly, no real glee or mirth following it — he was too tired to do anything other than talk about general stuff (and even that was hard to do what with his scratchy throat. He was tired).

 

"You're—" it looked like Owen was searching for the right words. "You're affiliated with the Doctor, right?"

 

Master didn't even have it in him to scoff, "We're both Time Lords. That's as far as our _affiliation_ goes."

 

There was something wrong with doctor Owen. He felt wrong. A bit like a fixed point in time, but curiously enough Master couldn't feel the energy of a fixed point in time from him, though neither could he feel any other kind of energy from him — he was void, null.

 

That made Master feel a bit uneasy; this man wasn't supposed to exist. In fact, he could feel that he should be gone, just... gone. He felt wrong like that freak Jack Harkness (less so, but still) (Master thought briefly if he should try and establish a mind link with the human —to see about his condition, to look at his alternate time lines, to figure things out— before deciding against it. He wasn't that interested in depleting his small amount of energy for something that probably wasn't even important).

 

"There's something wrong with you," Master said, voicing his thoughts anyway ( _'going the easier route,'_ he sneered in his mind), before Owen could say anything regarding the Doctor anymore. Owen snorted. "Thanks. Even aliens are calling me weird now."

 

"You're..." Master's face scrunched up; half in concentration, half in disgust. "You're not supposed to exist. Why do you exist?"

 

Owen didn't look affronted, no — in fact, his face was nearly blank. A little too blank actually. "Wow, you'd make an excellent philosopher. A+." He snorted and shrugged. "Why don't you keep that kind of shit you spew inside your mouth." It's a sore subject, Master noticed, but that wasn't the reason he let the topic end.

 

Owen looked Master in the eyes, the blank look gone and replaced by a curious one, "Say, you wanna eat something a bit more solid? You've been on that shitty IV for weeks now. I obviously can't give you anything like steak or something harsh like that, because you will spew your guts out. Let's start with something easy; like pudding, yeah?"

 

Master didn't feel hungry (it was frightening, but true. He was actually _not_ hungry for once), but he nodded anyway (maybe he could try to escape, maybe he could grab something sharp nearby and stab doctor Harper with it, maybe—).

 

Owen grinned, "Ianto will bring you some as soon as he places the order." His hand flew to his ear, where he probably had a comm, "You _did_ get the message, right teaboy?" He asked and waited a bit before turning back to Master, hand falling down again. "Yeah, he'll get you some pudding soon. In the mean time how about I check on your casts? We're going to need to take them off and then I'll run a few scans, alright?"

 

Despite looking like a simian incapable of talking without throwing in a lot of choice swear words, Owen knew what he was doing. He broke the casts off carefully and ran scans while writing everything down. "Right, so, you'll be part mummy for another month at least. And that's me being generous as fuck. Your leg and arm are taking a lot of time to heal, despite your other fatal wounds having healed already. The scrapes on your body are also taking quite some time to heal..."

 

Ianto brought about ten cups of pudding and yoghurt. When Master had his arm and leg back in new casts Owen helped him with the containers. He didn't do much, just opened the cups and helped Master reacquaint himself with a spoon (Master protested quite vehemently at first — averse to someone helping him as if he were a toddler, but soon quieted down. He was too tired to have verbal fights with Owen, who seemed to be able to spew forth the most frightening amount of circular reasoning that Master had ever heard).

 

Owen then leaned against the table and stared at Master as he ate. "You know," he started. "When we found you our boss was incredibly against the idea of helping you. He said you were evil."

 

Master looked up, curious. "Did he now?" The only ones who should know about his _evil_ tendencies were the ones on Valiant, or people who had seen what had happened when he came back years later. The latter was impossible though as it hadn't happened from the human population's perspective yet. Or at all. So who was it that was also on the Valiant?

 

And suddenly it clicked. He forgets to even swallow properly and almost chokes on his mouthful of pudding.

 

He exhaled slowly, calmed down. If Jack was indeed here then that meant the Master was in Torchwood. Why wasn't he dead, or worse, in the Doctor's Tardis yet? Why hadn't Jack killed or handed him over yet? Did he seriously want revenge?

 

Master grimaced at the thought of that; the Doctor was certainly a saint when it came to forgiving people, but Jack was a different story entirely. On top of that Master had tortured Jack for a whole _year_ on the Valiant — he was sure to have some sort of grudges.

 

He needed to get away from this place. He needed to find a spaceship and get away from Earth.

 

Master gave a small glance at Owen who was muttering something about his boss, about Jack, and the Time Lord wondered how he could distract the man.

 

"Where's the lavatory?" Crude, but acceptable from a Human's point of view.

 

Owen raised an eyebrow. "Your metabolism seems to work just fine I see." He looked away for a second. "Unfortunately, boss said that as soon as you woke up you'd have to be detained in the basement, in our holding cell. There's a small toilet in a corner though. So if you still feel like you want to take a leak..."

 

Master figured it wouldn't be this piss-poor easy. No matter, he could think of a few hundred more ways to escape, one more convoluted than the other.

 

There was a door opening (probably... it sounded more like one of those high-tech ones that were starting to take over at the beginning of the 21st century) and Master could hear voices along with hurried steps. Then a woman appeared, with long black hair and really big eyes, running down the stairs to the Master's side.

 

"You're awake! You're finally awake!" She exclaimed, a smile gracing her features (Master felt a wave of disgust wash over him; she reminded him too much of the Doctor). "How are you feeling? Owen, how is he?"

 

"He's uh... fine, as far as I can tell. He did have a small episode with trying to puke his guts out, but he's fine. Where's Jack?" Owen turned to the girl, who was examining the alien, still.

 

A few seconds before anyone said or did anything, Master felt his stomach turn with sickness, frustratingly aware of how something _very_ wrong was making it's way towards him. He knew _exactly_ who this Jack was. He turned over to the side where the bucket lay and tried, once again, to puke his intestines and all of the just eaten pudding out. He felt, rather than saw or heard, Jack coming closer, which prompted even more gags and heaves.

 

God, he's so _wrong, get away, get away, get away!_

 

"Looks like our little alien is awake." Jack's voice grated on Master's nerves, making him grit his teeth to hold the now dry heaves at bay, body still leaning over towards the bucket. Master felt a small smidgeon of gratitude that Jack was standing near the stairs and not moving any closer — he would no doubt have another spewing fit if Jack were to move closer.

 

The Time Lord sat back up, glaring at the human, the heaves and gags thankfully gone.

 

"Harkness." a growl.

 

"Saxon." Was the reply (Master blinked, but then resumed his glare instantly).

 

"Saxon?" The girl asked, blinking in confusion. "Is he seriously the guy who ran for prime minister? Were we actually right?"

 

"Yes, he is. Well, that's not actually his name, but I like the nice ring _Saxon_ has." Jack answered casually, but Master could heard the subtle undertone of anger in his words. He's obviously still not over Valiant.

 

"Do you intend to kill me, Harkness?" Because that's not gonna work out that well.

 

Jack smirked lazily (it's a farce! He's strung tighter than a bowstring!), "Nope." He didn't offer anything else.

 

A sneer crossed Master's face. "So I'm a prisoner."

 

"Yep."

 

Jack's smirk made Master feel hate boil inside him, but he finally gave a smirk of his own. "I hope you can manage to keep me that way, then. For the sake of yourself." Though his words threatened Jack's own life, it was clear to the immortal that Master wouldn't leave his crew alive would he get the chance.

 

"Oh, don't you worry about that, Bambi, I have decades worth of alien technology here; I'm sure I'll find a nice collar for you to keep you in check. Or, I could just throw you into a holding cell. Owen?"

 

If that sentence wasn't enough, then the small glance Jack threw at the medic said it all — time to move the Time Lord to a prison cell. Master felt his blood run cold.

 

And then Owen was taking the electrodes off of him, carefully examining his face and body language.

 

The drums stopped. It became eerily silent. Even the constant chattering from Jack's team wasn't enough to break the quiet that fell like an iron curtain over Master's hearing. The alien felt his body still involuntarily — the silence was too stifling. He heard Jack talking... or maybe Owen, he wasn't sure, but the quiet in the air was still too much, too different, overwhelmingly empty. He wanted to tap it out on the table. He wanted to go back to sleep and think that this was just a dream. He wanted his limbs to actually move according to how his brain told them.

 

But even when Jack's lackeys took hold of him and lead him into a cell, he couldn't do anything except stumble in the direction they pushed him in. He didn't feel right in his own body anymore, didn't feel like he could control it. He felt vulnerable

 

696

 

Jack shifted his hand on the buttons of the computer's keyboard, a bit hesitant. He needed to tell the Doctor about Master, and yet... it might not be a good idea. Maybe that would bring up too many painful memories? But he also knew he couldn't let Master stay in Torchwood; that was just asking for another World domination attempt, what with all the alien equipment lying about.

 

Jack pressed the buttons, calling the Doctor. Better do it now before he changed his mind.

 

"Hello, Jack!" The Doctor's face appeared on the screen. It appeared he had been in the middle of running around the Tardis, pushing buttons and turning dials. But seeing Jack, Doctor grinned and slowed down, before staying put and staring directly at Jack. It's a different face from what Jack last remembered.

 

"Oh, a new face?" Jack grinned, "and you seem to be wearing a bowtie."

 

"Bowties are cool." Doctor said with a tone of satisfaction, fixing his aforementioned accessory. "Now, what's wrong? You never call me on the Tardis. Also, how did you do that? You shouldn't be able to intercept the Tardis' signal at all—"

 

"You've forgotten that I've been on your little ship before, Doctor. I might've tweaked a few things here and there to let me get in touch with you," Jack responded innocently.

 

The Time Lord grinned, but stopped when Jack's face turned serious. "What's wrong, Jack?" He asked worriedly.

 

The immortal honestly didn't know how to bring up the topic he was about to discuss. He tried going slow, gathering information. "Doctor, what did you do to Saxon's body after the Valiant?"

 

Doctor was silent. Then he spoke softly, "Have you been seeing nightmares, Jack?"

 

He looked terribly guilty. So much so that Jack immediately rushed to say, "No, no, it's just that..." How was he going to explain this to the Doctor? He sighed, "I just need to know."

 

Doctor looked away from the screen for a moment (Jack was almost afraid the Time Lord wouldn't answer his initial question), before looking back at Jack, "I burned his body."

 

But—

 

What was Jack to say to that? Master hadn't looked like he had been burned, no, he had looked like he'd been in a long and arduous fight with someone. Why was his body still intact if he had indeed died and turned to ashes?

 

"But," the Doctor continued sorrowfully. "he was brought back from the dead by a cult that followed him. He tried to take over the World again and..." There was a deep sigh; he was obviously thinking how to phrase everything, so the story wouldn't be lengthy. "He _did_ take over the World. For a little while. He made every single human turn into him, so that he could decipher where the drums came from—"

 

(Every single human turn into... What the hell?)

 

"Wait, wait, wait. Drums? The rhythm everyone was tapping in the year that never was? Why— how— why was that so important to him?"

 

"It's because he had been hearing those drums for basically his whole life, ever since he was 8. That was what drove him mad. And he wanted to find out where they had originated from... Anyway, turned out that the rhythm came from Gallifrey."

 

Seeing Jack's _very_ confused stare, Doctor grimaced, "It's all very... timey-wimey. I left Gallifrey in a timelock, so it could never hurt anyone ever again, but the Time Lords somehow found out about that in the past and plotted to use Master as a means to escape their future. Which basically means they created the drums for a young Master, knowing he'd start looking into it when he got older. And they were right; Master found out and brought them out of the timelock, where the Time Lords started threatening to take over the Earth and bring back Gallifrey. I eventually severed the link between the Master and Rassilon, that's the Time Lord President by the way, and they were going to be sucked back into the timelock. But Rassilon was about to try and kill me and everyone else with his last attack and then the Master jumped in at the last second and charged at him, because he wanted revenge. And then they were all gone, back in the timelock." The Doctor gave a long exhale, emotionally drained from both the explaining and the harsh memories.

 

Jack, slightly surprised by the amount of information, took a second to process it all. He was grateful that the Time Lord thought him worthy to know what had happened to the Master, the alien who shared his race and, even though evil, was still the Doctor's close acquaintance. "So..." Jack paused, gathering his thoughts. "Master went back with them to Gallifrey and participated in the Time War?" At the Doctor's nod, Jack inquired gently. "How long did the Time War last, Doctor?"

 

Doctor looked exhausted suddenly, something so out of character for him that Jack wanted  to cut the call right there. "Too long, Jack."

 

Okay... Jack wanted to say okay. He didn't.

 

"When did this all... take place? When did the Master come back? I don't... remember..."

 

Doctor eyed Jack thoughtfully. "What year is it for you?"

 

"Uhh... 2008."

 

Doctor smiled sorrowfully. "Sorry, can't tell you. It has yet to happen from your point of time." Jack wanted to sigh out loud, but suppressed the urge. Instead he looked up attentively as the Doctor's voice turned sharp and inquisitive, face void of emotion. "Jack, have you found out all you needed?"

 

Alright then, Jack decided, it was now or never. "Well, there's this little matter that needs resolving, doc. Me and my team—"

 

"Doctor! You promised to show me a planet!" A girl with fiery red hair appeared next to the Doctor, staring angrily at said alien.

 

Jack's thoughts stuttered (abort, abort, _fucking abort!_ ). He almost bit his own tongue off from the abrupt order his thoughts sent him to stop the mission, to back down.

 

As he stared transfixed at the girl now berating the old alien, Jack's first thought was that he couldn't possibly mention the Master was back now. What would happen to the Doctor's new, young companion?

 

His whole plan had been riding on the fact that he had thought, _hoped_ , the Doctor was travelling alone at the moment, that the last fiery red-head, Donna Noble, was now gone. And in part he had been right except, well, there was a new red-headed girl in Donna's place now.

 

If he mentioned the Master now then the Doctor would definitely want to take the other Time Lord off his hands and into his safe custody, maybe even add Master as a second companion, which meant that something would doubtlessly go wrong. But Jack knew the Doctor would not use that option; he was reckless, not stupid. Which left him with the option of taking the girl home. Jack could hear his own heart breaking; the Doctor on the screen looked so happy with his new companion. He couldn't leave this kind of pressure on the Doctor after all he had already been through.

 

"Oh!" It looked like the young girl had noticed Jack. "Uhh, I didn't know the Doctor was talking to someone. Sorry." She looked really apologetic about cutting in on whatever the two men had been talking about.

 

"No, it's fine. My name's Jack, what's yours?" The immortal gave a grin, went back to the basics; flirting.

 

"Hello Jack! My name's Amy," the girl waved enthusiastically.

 

"What a lovely name you have, Amy."

 

"Jack." Doctor's voice was stern and the human was briefly reminded of the tenth incarnation of him; cheeky and cocky. This one seemed to be a bit more laid back though.

 

"Just kidding, doc," Jack grinned, even as he felt a rock settle in the pit of his stomach. "Anyway, sorry I bothered you. You've got many adventures to get to."

 

"Yeah," the Doctor grinned. "I'll see you when we come back from... oh..." the Doctor gave a slight frown at the computer, probably seeing something unsettling. "Now this isn't right. Jack, I'll talk to you later. The Tardis is acting up again. Old girl's been doing this for weeks now."

 

"Wait, what—" the screen blackened. "Doctor!" When it was obvious Doctor wasn't going to come back, Jack sighed. He had actually needed more information regarding Master, if he was indeed going to be babysitting him for a while. What were his powers, his habits, Gallifreyan physiology, etc.

 

The immortal slumped down on the ground, crossing his arms, thinking of various plans, feeling more than a little sombre about the whole situation. It's time to be strong, Jack.


End file.
